Far across the lake, on the other shore, the family
takes off their hats, loosens their neckties, unbraids
their hair. There is a man and woman,
a girl and small dog with floppy ears. They board you
through the mist and stink of weeds. You pitch wildly.
Not until the shore’s too far gone will they realize
the wood underfoot is rotten soft. Delicately,
like a slowly flooding room, it will dawn
on them: no one ever survives you. At sunset
they’ll leap from your edges like flames.